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At the Kitchen Table, a Live Reading

AT THE KITCHEN TABLE

By Maura Stone

READ IN FRONT OF A LIVE AUDIENCE SATURDAY, JULY 21, 2012 as part of a local community event

At the Stone household, the kitchen table holds a pre-eminent
position. We’re foodies where the boundary between gourmand and gourmet
constantly blurs, a vacillating pendulum between necessity for survival and appeasing
an insatiable appetite for a new taste challenge.

When I was nine, mom replaced the old wooden table with a
glass one held up by spindly metal legs. Mom loved gorgeous things. She was a
beautiful, elegant woman who woke up one day to find herself married with three
wild children and three feral dogs. No doubt, she was in her perpetual state of
denial when she made that purchase.

The new kitchen table was a deathtrap. Actually, half the house
was a deathtrap filled with antique breakfronts and delicate collectible items that
rattled and shook at each footstep. And at each strike from the dogs' tails:
dogs that defied basic training, constantly underfoot. They hated each other
and filled their days with chronic battles for alpha status. My childhood
memories center around the Stone mantra, usually bellowed from the tv room:
"No running in the kitchen! No running in the dining room! No running in
the living room!" Yet not a peep at the dogs to stop them from running
amok.

At the new glass-topped kitchen table, my kid brother, Matt,
assessed the situation. It took a mere second to evaluate that this meal was a
potential disaster waiting to erupt. As the middle child, he constantly sought
attention as well as innovative ways to drive mom out of her gourd. He picked
up the heavy stainless steel fork and lightly touched the table while my mother
attended to my baby sister in her high chair.

Mom reacted as predicted. “Matt, stop hitting your fork
against the table. You know it’s made of glass."

“Isn’t it protected by the tablecloth?” he snottily asked
and tapped the table with a little more pressure.

Frustrated, mom eyed him, yet he continued taunting her.
“Matt, what did I tell you a few moments ago? Stop it!” she shrieked.

Encouraged, he coyly toyed with the fork. Tap tap tap tap
tap tap tap. Irritated, mom leaned over and forcibly slammed the fork down. Matt,
overjoyed to have won that round, squealed in laughter.

Until we heard a giant crunch.

Similar to a car accident when things appear to move in slow
motion, we watched, horrified, as our entire meal disappeared in one fell swoop
through the widening gap. Seated at the head of the table, my father witnessed his
favorite dinner swallowed down the rabbit hole. Incredulous, he whispered, “Oh
boy, oh boy.”

My baby sister saw the looks on our parents' faces and let
out a blood-curdling wail.

Right at that moment, the dogs went berserk. As one, they
dashed under the table, sidestepping the broken glass. Matt's laughter mingled
with the dogs' grunting. We heard the tear of quality tablecloth linen replaced
with barks, growls and snarls. That's when we knew they found dad's steak,
cooked to perfection.

My mother, fit to be tied, couldn't decide whether to fight
the dogs for the remnants of the meal, beat my brother to a pulp, or jump into
the car and leave once and for all the bedlam I knew as home.

Summoning a calmness she never previously demonstrated, she
said, "Art, go to the Chinese restaurant and get some take-out. Matt,
you're banished to your room." Then, she pointed at me. "Maura, get
the dogs outta here and clean up." She picked up the baby, stomped to the master
bedroom and slammed the door behind her. In moments, ungodly sounds assailed
our ears.

The three of us stared at each other. Dad muttered,
"We're in deep trouble. Thanks loads, Matt," grabbed the car keys and
ran out. Matt trudged off to his bedroom.

Alone, I grabbed the smallest dog, Foo-Gee, by his hind legs
and dragged him from under the table. I picked him up, opened the back door and
tossed him outside into the yard. I turned around to confront the remaining two.
Rusty was milder than Champy, but not when it concerned food. He had a mean
streak. Kinda resembled the way we are as well with food.

Risking life and limb, I bent down, avoiding the shards of
glass, and grabbed a piece of dad's steak hanging from Rusty's mouth. I held on
and played a tug of war with him until I pulled him alongside the back door.
Opening it with one hand, I shoved him out. The last dog, Champy, stopped
eating for a moment, puzzled with the sudden silence. He was the dumbest dog of
the lot.

I said, "Hey, Champy, wanna join your friends?" He
jumped up, wagging his stub of a tail and easily left the house.

Two days later we had a new glass table top. Mom spent the
day cooking a giant batch of stuffed cabbage and proudly served each one of us.
While she attended to the baby, Matt dropped his plate.

THE END

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This blog and all its posts are a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.